To Laugh or Cry

“I should have known better,” Tom said as he was looking at his new apartment. It was moving day for Tom as he finally moved out of his home. He didn’t like how things ended but despite being a man of forty years, he finally moved out of his mother’s house. It was embarrassment for him to admit that, but he accepted that he had to stay to take care of his mother as she lost her vision and her husband. No one respected that decision, but he had to acknowledge that people were quick to judge him regardless plus he lived in a racist part of the city and he wasn’t attractive, so he had to deal with that for a long time. His mother didn’t have much respect for him either as she always was quick to compare to his more successful brothers and his late father.

His father was not someone who was easy to love and he didn’t leave his family on the best of terms. His father argued and harshly critiqued his older sister for her choices including her taste in men. His father excommunicated his younger sister for being queer and for being fat. His father separated form his mother and even tried to bribe Tom’s older brother to help him finish his divorce from his wife. And he ignored Tom’s younger brother as they had a fight for years. Tom was the one who had the most reasons to hate his father, but he had no grievances with the man. Largely because he had long given up that he would ever have a good relationship with his father. He learn this when he discovered that he wasn’t straight and his father never understood it, he explain he didn’t look at women that way and all he understood was that he wasn’t gay. There were moments of abuse but Tom wasn’t a good son either so it balances out.

I was the last person to speak to his father, he laughed and said,” Remember when I used to say ‘what would you do when I die’ and I chuckled. We just laughed as if we were a live studio audience to a sitcom. He wheezed and when he got his breath under control, he asked, “Tom, you think your mother would forgive me for leaving her?” I thought about my sweet mother and laugh saying, “No one on this family would forgive you for dying especially since you didn’t talk to anyone but for me for years.” He chuckled, “That so unfair, I mean, what the fuck.” He shook his head and lie back down on his bed. He was quiet in the hospital bed, it was one of the only times such a lively man looks his actual age. He looked at me, studying my face. He often told me that I look like my mother all down to inheriting her tits. It was a shitty joke but it made me happy that he was telling me that I wasn’t ugly. It was uncomfortable and made the moment real, my father was going to die that night. “Can you get me a beer?” He said with a sad smile.

I open the door to my apartment and I look around. It was dusty beyond comparison. I wonder if my mother is giving the caretaker I hired hell. She was a spitfire of woman. She was where I got my independent streak from and I was proud of her for always finding to live her life regardless of what happens. My father often complained what was the point of him if his wife rarely needed him beyond sitting there and looking pretty. My wife would often chimed in and says she didn’t think he was that good looking so he didn’t even that well. That memory brought a chuckle out of me.

I look around and smell the dust and wonder where the stove was supposed to be. It was clear that it was someones else’s home. Kudos to whoever thought it was a good idea to put a collection of books in a oven. It took a good chunk of my morning organizing the crap that I wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be anyone and put the books on the actual bookshelves. I hated the smell but I will clean this once the sink so I can wiped it down. I remember when I was kid that my mother was obsessed with cleaning the house, she treated the task like it was her actual job. She did this on top of working at the factory, cooking and being the family accountant. She often took out her frustrations on two things, the house and me. She never hit me if that what’s your wondering but she cut down any sense of pride I had in me any chance she got.

I loved my mother, her smile, her jokes, and even crass remarks. But she didn’t like me. She loved me but she dis not like my hobbies, my girlfriend, or my clothing. It seemed she had issue with me. I don’t know why. But I should know why. There was almost no boundaries that she wouldn’t have cross with her remarks.

I still remember the time she ask me if I stole some of her make up. I didn’t and she acknowledged that since it would be like putting lipstick on a pig. Whenever people act in distress, my mother will act and help them. But never with me, she would rather that I find my own way out of the situation. This antagonistic way of coaching me through life was what I needed to be the man I am now, but it didn’t feel that way at the time. I yelled at her because she played into my personal struggles, I don’t know why and I still don’t.

I wondered if she knew how I would reacted. I wondered if she is doing. I wondered if she welcome me home when went back for my stuff. She wasn’t happy with me but she didn’t really talk to me in that moment. But maybe something will go right between when enough time pass, maybe.